


Reality

by PrinceVenus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Iwaizumi is the epitome of art nerd, Kuroo Tetsurou is a Good Friend, Lots Of Sad, M/M, Oikawa is a secretive lil shit, figure skater Oikawa, lots of fluff, photographer Iwaizumi, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:39:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceVenus/pseuds/PrinceVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only one man, and for that, Hajime was relieved. Hunched over, head between his knees and a tall glass bottle of clear liquid by his feet, half empty. Hajime had to refrain from trying to take a photo, knowing full well he’d need to either turn his light source back on, or use the in-built camera flash (he physically cringed at the thought). He could, ultimately, take the photo and run, but he wasn’t too sure his odds against this long-legged guy were too great, even if his opponent was drunk.</p><p>(Otherwise known as "wtf is a summary")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eyes Shut

He knows why he’s on the ground. He can hear the absence of sound, even as the music continues to play over the agony in his head. Because the crowd is no longer breathing, and Oikawa is no longer skating. He’s on the ground, everything hurts, and he knows that this could very well be the end of his career. Oikawa doesn’t stand up.

—

Hajime sighs, rubbing a palm in circular motions against his forehead, trying to ease the dull ache. This particular project is due in less than a fortnight, and Hajime’s still searching for a location, let alone a willing model. Or the inspiration to create in the first place. The camera hangs heavy over his shoulder, only reminding him of how badly he’s messed up this time.

Hajime knows that the majority of his photography class have already developed their ideas, if not completed the shoot and moved on to post-production. Hajime also knows he shouldn’t have left it this late, but procrastination’s a bitch and organised projects are his nightmare.

Hajime loves photography. From a young age, he’d always felt the desire to capture every moment in it’s entirety, regardless of the importance or artistic value, because Hajime fears the day he’ll forget it all. Paired with a camera, he feels a little reassurance that he is at least making a difference in the capturing of memories, turning something he experienced into something he can treasure forever.

Of course, that required skill, even beyond what Hajime could teach himself from online courses and inexpensive classes, which is how he came to be enrolled in various arts courses in the only higher education provider in his area. Possibly also one of the more expensive universities in the prefecture, but Hajime figured it was worth the crippling debt if he didn’t have to catch a three hour train every morning. Or, at least he hoped it had been the right choice.

At least the on-campus accommodation wasn’t too expensive.

As of this very moment, he’s wandering around the campus, armed with a camera and his dying flashlight. It’s nearly two am, the moon is barely visible through the clouds, and Hajime is struggling to not throw it all in and call it quits. He’s got no clue what he’s doing, really. He wants to return to the past, when he’d first started this class, and he’d had boundless energy to waste on hunting down new muses.

Now, he was lucky to hand even a single field assignment in on time. The theory was fine, the practical work was great, but given only a general guideline and a limited time period, Hajime was drowning.

He was meant to be photographing ‘new life.’ That’s all the project explanation he was given before the class was pushed outside by an over-energetic teacher. It hadn’t been until people started to talk about their ideas that Hajime really started to panic. Akane had a new baby cousin, Kaoru wanted to follow the progression of a tiny plant’s growth. Even Aiko was putting together a decent project, showing the variance between her life before and after meeting her boyfriend.

Hajime was drowning, and he was in this sea alone.

He was, of course, startled out of his mindless rhythm when it sounded like someone was _literally_ drowning. A slosh of water, a cough, a groan. Hajime wasn’t really sure what he was doing when he began to follow the sound, as everything went quiet and still once more. It had appeared to originate from underneath a staircase in the space between two buildings; dusty, dark, and unfrequented. Hajime knew he was likely walking in on some kind of heinous act, but maybe he’d have to sacrifice his innocence to truly sate his curiosity.

Maybe he’d receive some inspiration as a bonus, too.

He approached the stone stairs carefully, placing his feet down lightly and watching his step to avoid the countless empty cans and food wrappers, and flicking his flashlight off in the process. This place was a horror of it’s own kind, and Hajime could only guess at what kind of people would choose to spend their nights here, just as he peered around the corner.

It was only one man, and for that, Hajime was relieved. Hunched over, head between his knees and a tall glass bottle of clear liquid by his feet, half empty. Hajime had to refrain from trying to take a photo, knowing full well he’d need to either turn his light source back on, or use the in-built camera flash (he physically cringed at the thought). He could, ultimately, take the photo and run, but he wasn’t too sure his odds against this long-legged guy were too great, even if his opponent was drunk.

Hajime wanted to back away, pretend he hadn’t walked in on some alcoholic asshole destroying their life. He was mentally cursing himself as he stepped out, leaning forward to gently pick up the bottle and hold it away. Even from here, the smell was obvious. Hajime wasn’t the type for spirits and other throat-burning drinks, but he can certainly spot one when he sees it (thanks, Yamaguchi). He frowns, holding it slightly away from his body, and only then notices that the man has raised his head enough to be staring Hajime straight in the eye.

He doesn’t look very drunk.

The man takes one appraising full-body glance, raising an eyebrow like he’s actually intrigued. Hajime knows this is more for show, and he knows that they both realise this. Nevertheless, he takes a step back, one hand on the half-empty bottle and the other on his camera.

To his surprise, the man shrugs. Waves his hand mildly in the air, pushes back a chunk of hair from his forehead. “If you’re willing to steal, you can have it. My gift,” he says, voice lilting and not unpleasant. Also certainly not drunk, or at least possessed by a person who knows how to hold their liquor. Hajime begins to wonder if he’s still making the morally right choice.

“You could always just sit here instead, though. Win-win, am I right?” the man continues, patting a patch of stone beside him. “That cost me half of my allowance for the week, and I think I’d rather share than lose it all.”

Hajime holds the bottle up, surveying the liquid inside. “Looks like you’ve already had plenty to drink,” he comments, immensely thankful that his voice doesn’t waver or crack. He can feel it from here, the way this man holds himself to a high standard and can make everyone else feel inferior. Even (probably) intoxicated, inadequately clothed and sitting under a cobweb-infested stairway. Hajime can feel his stance slipping.

The man shakes his head, making it look entirely too sorrowful. “Not enough, apparently.”

Hajime makes his decision then, promptly turning and taking two paces forward before dumping the entire bottle’s contents on the dry and cracked dirt lining the opposite wall. Whatever the man is drinking to avoid can’t be resolved tonight. He can feel the eyes on his back, but hears no efforts being made to get up and actually stop Hajime. The last few drops slide from the neck, hitting the ground with tiny patters, and Hajime shakes the glass for good measure.

When he turns around, the man is smiling. It’s uncanny, but it almost makes Hajime feel like he’s lost whatever game this is. So perhaps it’s a poorly concealed revenge that has Hajime tossing the empty bottle back in the man’s direction, although it’s definitely surprise weighing heavy when the man catches it with ease in one hand, and climbs to his feet with all the grace Hajime would expect of a ballet dancer.

“Mean,” the man chants, waving the bottle between them and chuckling. Maybe he is a _little_ drunk. Hajime doesn’t know when his sense of someone’s inebriation became an unreliable work, but he certainly can’t pin this man down.

“You should probably go home,” Hajime prods, turning and starting to move swiftly from the dark gap. The guy wasn’t drinking anymore; Hajime had no reason to stick around any longer.

Unless the man follows him, and Hajime is faced with a choice; confront and fight, or just let it be? In the end, he doesn’t actually acknowledge his stalker, figuring he’ll get bored and leave if he’s ignored for long enough. Maybe something shiny will distract him.

They’re nearly at the studio when Haime finally spins around to really tell this guy where he should be going. Somewhere that is _definitely_ a way away from the run down shed in the forgotten corner of the campus.

His follower is fiddling with the bottom of his shirt, eyes downcast like a scolded child, and Hajime sighs. Maybe it’s time to talk to Ushijima about working on a unrelenting persona, because he can’t keep giving in to every cute gesture someone pulls on him. Lord knows how many times Yachi had pulled the same manoeuvre on him.

Hajime gestures back to the studio behind him, tucked away near the campus border fence. “Do you want to come inside, or do you plan on just hanging around nearby?”

The man hesitates, glancing up in surprise like he hadn’t expected to be addressed, and Hajime rolls his eyes. There’s a heavy feel to the air and a sharp chill that reminds Hajime of home; there’s snow coming, and Hajime is going to feel incredibly guilty if he leaves this man to his own devices and ends up with a front page header about an innocent university student gone missing, presumed dead in the terrible weather.

Reaching out, before the man can make a run for it, Hajime latches onto his wrist and drags his new ‘friend’ behind him as they traverse the short space to the tin shed. It’d be warm in there once Hajime fires up the space heater, and maybe it would tempt the man into sleeping so Hajime could actually get some work done. There’s no complaints, and the man stumbles along behind as if this was completely normal, a stranger forcibly dragging him to a creepy-looking shed.

Hajime doesn’t really want to think about how that reflects on the man’s indifference to his own safety. Or expectations for the night.

He has to let go of his companion’s wrist when they arrive at the door, to shove the key in the slot. It always takes a bit of jostling, and it’s become an ongoing competition between the users of this studio to be the one to get the key right first time, when no one ever has. Hajime’s pretty sure he’s not going to win the contest, as he slams his weight down on the lever-handle, to no avail.

He pulls the key out, knocks the handle to make sure it’s completely upright, and tries again. He manages to get the door to make a creak that might possibly lead to entrance, before the key jams and Hajime is left at the start all over again.

He can feel the man peering over his shoulder, watching him struggle with the lock, warm breath washing against his skin in oddly comfortable intimacy. He, strangely, doesn’t particularly mind the audience, not until there’s an arm snaking between his waist and elbow, peeling Hajime’s shocked hand away from the strikingly cold handle. The man’s head collapses on Hajime’s shoulder as he works, twisting the key a little bit before getting it to produce a satisfying _click_.

Hajime huffs as the man withdraws, stepping around with this twinkling light in his eyes and the key held beside his face. Hajime presses down on the handle, feeling it slowly give way before the door groans and swings outward.

Every single one of his closest friends were just bet to the prize by a drunk stranger. Great.

Hajime fumbles around on the inside wall for the light switch, groaning when something topples in the process. When the light finally flickers to life, he’s greeted with someone’s paintbrushes spread all over the floor, although he can’t actually tell if that’s what fell, or if they were just left there to begin with. The latter is certainly not unusual, particularly considering the paper also spread all over the ground.

The entire studio is a mess, actually. Hajime has to step over a box full of small blank canvases just to reach the main space, and then shift aside a probably-larger-than-his-own-body sheet of thick paper covered in light pencil markings to reach his desk. He’s already setting down his camera and removing the SD card before his company makes their first judgement.

“It’s so…”

“Cluttered, I know. I apologise for our inability to keep our mess contained,” Hajime cuts in, already having heard the same speech every time someone brought in a new classmate, a prospective relationship, a partner in a project. Hajime didn’t blame them. The shed was actually quite large, considering they’d all smuggled it in pieces through campus to set it up, but it was never quite spacious enough to accomodate for the five endless artists.

“Beautiful,” the man whispers, staring in awe at the single plaster wall Ushijima had slaved to set stable against the tin shed. Hajime’s eyes flick over the disorderly pile of abandoned drawings on the centre table; the lack of organisation in photos pinned over a wall, most gathering a film of dust because there’s nothing to be done anymore; the spatters of paint that everyone procrastinates to clean, stains that are probably too old to be scrubbed out anyway. Even the concrete slab the shed balanced on was splitting, and no one wanted to take the responsibility to call someone to fill it in. Were they even allowed to ask tradesmen on a university campus without expressed permission from a person of power?

His guest shifts to reach out and brush his hand over Ushijima’s latest mural, and Hajime wasn’t sure which was more starry: Ushijima’s galaxy paintings, or the stranger’s eyes. Hajime figured it was the alcohol finally settling in. Ushijima was _good_ , but the stranger is staring at the wall like it held the key to the all his problems.

Is he _high_ too? Some of Hajime’s friends smoke, but that doesn’t designate him as carer for the intoxicated and the drug users. He didn’t _want_ to associate himself with the drunk smoker who lives under the stairs.

“Stars enthusiast?” Hajime jokes, sliding out the top desk drawer and cracking open a plastic container, sliding in the tiny blue SD card into one of the few empty slots. He has to stifle a less-than-socially-acceptable word of exclamation when he lifts his head again and nearly crashes into the stranger, who’d been peering over his shoulder. Hajime hadn’t heard him move, and that was more than a little disconcerting.

“You do the photo thing?” the stranger asks, ignoring the close proximity and seemingly unaware of the alcoholic smell washing off him.

Hajime leans back, crossing his arms. “Yes, I do _the photo thing,_ ” he answers bluntly, frowning until the man backs off with his hands held palm outwards.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not from these parts, I can stay quiet.”

Hajime nods, turning back to his desk and pulling open the second drawer on the right side. It’s full of black plastic and glass, and Hajime has to stifle a groan, because since _when_ were his lenses all mixed up and turned over? He just started sorting out his old photo stacks last weekend, and now _this_.

The stranger either forgets his promise or can’t hold his tongue, because Hajime doesn’t have the time to even find the only unattached lens cap before he’s speaking again. Hajime wouldn’t admit it aloud, ever, but he’d rather the man talk than stay silent. At least he can’t go stalking around when his overexcited chatter gives him away.

“Who made this?”

Hajime glances back briefly, finding the man gazing at the plaster wall again, tracing his finger down the jagged line where Ushijima had paused painting over in white for the day. “Ushijima.”

“Why did they stop?”

Hajime finds the cap, pulling it out and pressing it over the lens on his camera with a satisfied nod. “He didn’t.”

He can feel the eyes on his back, pressing for more information, and he pushes his camera into a fabric bag before turning around with a sigh. He can clean it tomorrow, one night won’t hurt.

The stranger is turned toward Hajime this time, perched on the edge of the old sofa shoved into the corner. Hajime has to give him the credit for looking interested, at least.

Leaning on his deckchair armrest, chin in palm, Hajime blinks slowly. “Ushijima finished painting that a few days ago. Now he’ll paint over it in white, wait for that to dry, and start something new.”

The man leans forward, flourishing his head to the side to knock the hair from his forehead. “Isn’t that a waste, though?”

“A waste of what?”

His guest shrugs, waving his hands a little. “I don’t know. Paint, supplies, all that stuff?”

Hajime has to suppress the desire to roll his eyes then. If he had a dollar for every single time someone complained about the waste of _perfectly good paint_ and the _impact on the environment_ and _you guys are terrible people,_ he’d surely be out of this university by now. As it was-

“The art, I guess. It just seems a waste to paint something so beautiful and then wipe it away like it never existed,” the stranger finishes, staring down at his feet, and using a tone much quieter than Hajime had heard from him all night.

Hajime starts, the unexpected answer catching him off guard. He holds his hand out to the wall behind him, the one that his desk is pressed up against. “We make sure to keep memories of it all. Nothing is forgotten.”

True to his word, nothing is left uncaptured. Hajime has pinned up photos from the very birth of this place, starting with the building of the shed (and the smuggling of pieces, too). There’s the day Yachi arrived, and the time they threw a surprise party for Ennoshita. It’s all documented, down to Yamaguchi’s first drink and the day he brought his boyfriend in for show. It’s Hajime’s favourite part of the hideout, although he feels an itching sense of discomfort when the stranger gets up and approaches the wall to investigate. No one ever takes interest in the piece, and thankfully so; it’s extremely revealing of the small group’s identity, something they work hard to establish outside of the binary norm.

The stranger doesn’t move beyond slight head tilts for several moments, in which Hajime fills by fidgeting and tensing his toes. The wall is a timeline of the group, like they’ve been pressed flat for display, and Hajime’s expected to just allow this complete stranger to witness everything? It’s a private piece of art on a public wall, yet Hajime makes no move to hide his work.

The man, however, does not comment on the oddities. He doesn’t say anything about the photograph capturing Yama and boyfriend kissing, or the one where Ennoshita hovers over Yachi, done up in stage makeup until she could easily pass for the male gender. Instead: “You’re really good at what you do.”

Hajime stiffens, interlocking his fingers and working to keep his face from reddening. “Thanks,” he mutters, staring down until he can hear the man’s footsteps leave his vicinity again. Hajime looks up to watch him go, staring at the large paper spread across the floor. The man really does has some sense of…balance. Hajime can’t put his finger on it, but he can at least take a stab and say that this guy knows his body extraordinarily well. Not for the first time, Hajime is reminded of a dancer, underneath sharply toned muscles and perfect stride.

Hajime’s determined to find out though, because he’ll have to close up soon enough and he won’t be getting any sleep without figuring this out. He starts simple, figuring he can work his way up to decipher this walking enigma. “What’re you studying here?”

Hajime couldn’t possibly have stepped on a landmine with such a simple question, _surely_ not. He’s questioning all of his gathered social skills though, when the man stiffens, straightening but never turning to look back at Hajime.

Perhaps he thinks his unease has gone unnoticed, because he waves a hand out like it’s nothing. “Oh, you know, just a bunch of odd subjects, nothing really.”

Hajime _didn’t_ know. He had absolutely no clue, but if this stranger didn’t want to give away details, that was more than okay, right?

He doesn’t really know how to continue the conversation from there, but he’s saved from the awkward silence.

“What year are you in?” the man asks, stepping lightly around the penciled paper and drawing closer to a stack of scripts.

“Second, just one more year after this.”

“Photography?” the man continues, with a light hum. He’s shifting through the scripts now, smiling as he scans through them. Hajime hasn’t the heart to pull them away, even if it is Ennoshita’s unfinished work. He has his doubts that this man could do much with the knowledge anyway.

“Bachelor of Arts,” Hajime confirms.

“Creative,” the man states in a suggestive tone, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Hajime glares at his back, unsure _what_ exactly this strange fellow is implying.

“Yeah, I guess,” Hajime shrugs. “I take it your on the opposite end of the spectrum, then. Science, maybe?”

The man rolls his shoulders back, bending his leg behind and stretching the joints. “I’ve been told that I can be very creative at times.”

 _Creative at avoiding the question_ , Hajime thinks, frowning. He’s about to press for more information when his phone buzzes repeatedly in his hoodie’s pocket, quickly followed by the generic tune Hajime had put no thought into picking out for a ringtone. He pulls out the offending device, and can feel the man studying him carefully as Hajime answers the call and presses it close to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hajime, get your ass out of the batcave and into bed. Whatever it is can wait until morning.”

Hajime huffs. “I’m not twelve, Chikara.” The man giggles from across the room, and Hajime sends him another glare, but it’s too late.

“Is there someone else there? I swear to god, Hajime, if you’ve brought some guy in to fu-“

“I get it, I get it. I’m leaving, happy? Close your god damn blinds and stop spying on me,” Hajime growls, hanging up before Ennoshita has the chance to respond. Hajime doesn’t actually bear any grudge on his friend for doing what he does; chances are Hajime will be doing the same thing once Ennoshita’s next filming deadline begins to approach. Only Ennoshita can see the shed from his dormitory room, but Hajime spends more time at night wandering than is probably healthy.

He tucks the phone back in his pocket, trying to disguise the dumb smile itching at his lips. Ennoshita’s far too good to him, and Hajime has no idea what he did right to deserve so many perfect people surrounding him.

The desire to smile quickly fades when he sees how interested the man seems to be tilting his head with his own cheeky grin. “You’re gay?”

Hajime’s breath stutters, and he turns away, shoving the camera into a satchel and hoisting the bag over his shoulder. “Yeah.” _The bastard was listening in on our conversation. I’m going to kill him._

He can hear the man shuffling a little. “That’s pretty cool. I mean- yeah. Same. Well, no, but, kind of?”

Hajime peeks around, finding the man rubbing the back of his neck like some flustered animated character. “What?”

The hand falls to the man’s hip, and he grins. “Bisexual. Pansexual, specifically, but people don’t usually know what tha-“

“I know.” Hajime shrugs his bag into a more comfortable position, turning around completely. “You probably heard, but I have to get out of here before Chikara comes and beats my arse. Are you alright to, uh, get home and stuff?”

The man chuckles. “I’m not _hopeless_. Have some faith!”

Hajime deadpans as he passes the man on his way to the door, snapping the creaking metal piece open. “You drank over half a bottle of some kind of drink, vodka perhaps? I think I have every right to be a little concerned.”

The man laughs wholly behind him, slipping out when Hajime holds the door open for him, and hitting the light switch on the way. “It was actually just left over from a few days ago, so not _that_ much. Besides, I’m used to the stuff.”

Hajime pauses, raising an eyebrow as he slams the door shut and shoves the key in. “That doesn’t sound like a very healthy lifestyle,” he comments mildly, locking the door, and tucking the key back in his pocket. Maybe he _should_ be walking this stranger home.

“Oh, it’s fine, honestly, I make it sound worse than it is, promise.”

Silence falls as they turn to face each other, and it’s Hajime’s turn to feel awkward. “So, uh…I should probably get going.”

The man nods, staring intently at his shoe as he scuffs the tip along the concrete. “Yeah.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” Hajime says, more out of politeness than anything. The chances of him meeting this particular student on such a large campus is extremely slim, especially if Hajime’s never seen him around before. He has the kind of face that screams _remember me._

Hajime stalls for a moment beyond that, thoughts running. He can’t even be sure this man _attends_ this university. He’s given no information about his education, and hasn’t proven himself any other way. Hajime’s forehead wrinkles.

“I’m going to head off now. Long way back, you know?” the man breaks in, smiling. It’s a softer smile than Hajime’s seen all night, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Even as the man is turning, walking away, heading to his own destination, Hajime is desperate to get in one last word.

“Hey, I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, it’s been nice meeting you and all,” he calls out, instantly regretting his decision as the man glances over his shoulder, barely even skipping a step.

“Oikawa Tooru, and the pleasure is _all mine._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *starts another fic*  
> *continues to ignore 11 other fics waiting for an update*


	2. Chill

Hajime, at most, expected a small thank-you note; and that was only if the strange ‘Oikawa Tooru’ from last night had been sober enough to recall his way back to the art space this icy morning. Whether or not someone would even _want_ to trek this far with the snow already beginning to pile up again was another question entirely.

As such, Hajime was entirely surprised and confused beyond reason to find a scarcely dressed individual hunched on the concrete doorstep to the shed.

“What are you doing,” Hajime mumbled gruffly, gently kicking at Oikawa as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. Oikawa, at least, had the decency to jump, although Hajime did feel a little guilty when he noticed the earphones pressed tightly into Oikawa’s ears. Still, it wasn’t Hajime’s fault this stranger had decided to enjoy his morning on an icy slab in an inch of snow.

Oikawa gave a sorry smile as he pulled the wires from his ears, something Hajime only barely noticed before his attention was honed in on getting the key into the hole. He certainly didn’t fail to notice the way Oikawa pulled his thumbnail to his lips, gazing up like he was waiting for Hajime to cast him away.

Thankfully, the lock seemed to be on his side today, clicking open with only minimal jangling. There was a time and place for reprimanding Oikawa’s behaviour, but right now Hajime just wanted to get them both inside, and possibly find a blanket to violently toss in Oikawa’s direction. He knocked the snow from his boots as Oikawa silently hauled himself to his feet, shoving his phone in his pocket before following Hajime’s lead.

Inside was possibly much colder than outside, Hajime discovered as he tugged his shoes off and headed within. He cursed as he stumbled over to the space heater, cranking it up to full before he hit the switch, fervently rubbing his hands to try and stimulate some kind of warmth. The system churned to life, and Hajime nodded appreciatively at it, before turning to face his next problem. Oikawa was just shutting the door behind him, and didn’t look up until both his sneakers were unlaced and placed neatly by the door.

“Morning!” Oikawa chirped, wandering across the room before flopping haphazardly across the couch in the corner. He didn’t bother with the thick rug laid over the cushions, reclining back and cocking his head at Hajime.

“Where are your clothes,” Hajime grunts, crouching down to gather the scattered paintbrushes into a neater stack on a clear part of the floor. If Yamaguchi wasn’t here yet, then he probably wasn’t too stressed about getting all this done - and Hajime could at least _pretend_ they tried to keep the place presentable.

Oikawa doesn’t respond, and Hajime doesn’t attempt to rekindle the conversation. The guy was probably still drunk, if he couldn’t feel the icy temperatures nipping at his bare skin. Instead, Hajime settled down at his desk, pulling a stack of printed photos towards him.

He’d been organizing these for several days now, a form of productive procrastination in the shadow of his ever-looming assignment. He’d always delete the obvious poor quality photos straight from his SD card, but the rest would be printed and shoved into a pile for later sorting.

Sorting that hadn’t happened for over eight months now 

He’d gotten through a fair amount in the days he’d applied himself – a lot of it wasn’t _too_ difficult to sort through. Some were just plain terrible, having somehow escaped his scrutiny before printing, and some, whilst not so great, perfectly suited his montage on the wall.

Even now, as he shifted the photos into appropriate piles – good, bad, and memories – Hajime was painfully aware of the size difference between the decent and poor piles. The closer he got to recent photos, the less he was transferring to the acceptable quality stack.

At some point, the space heater actually kicked into action, slowly but surely warming the tiny shed. Hajime’s fingers started to regain feeling, and he nearly sighed in relief.

By that time, Oikawa had also gotten bored and stumbled over to watch Hajime work. He was quiet and peaceful, so Hajime didn’t make too much note of it – not until the door cracks open again, and a tall figure joined them. Hajime scowlrd at the blast of cold air, even for the short time the door was open, but Ushijima doesn’t seem to notice - or care.

Instead, he’s sliding off his boots and trekking across to his plaster wall, and cracking open his tin of cheap white paint.

_That’s_ when Hajime is forced to acknowledge the problem, because Oikawa nearly screamed in excitement, buzzing over to Ushijima’s side with a non-stop flow of questions. Hajime couldn’t even discern one word from the next, but he rose from his chair anyway and abandoned his work. Ushijima didn’t deserve this kind of annoyance, not when Hajime brought Oikawa here in the first place.

“Oikawa, down,” Hajime says, tugging on Oikawa’s arm until he’s forced to back up from Ushijima – who was, remarkably, still painting white in long strokes like he hadn’t even noticed the babbling. 

“He’s the one who painted the galaxy!” Oikawa says, like Hajime doesn’t already _know_. He’s gesturing at the wall wildly, and even just through his arm Hajime can feel the buzzing energy.

“Yes, yes, good work on those top observation skills,” Hajime muttered, dragging Oikawa across the room and back to the desk. He’s still half an hour early, but Oikawa won’t know that. “I’ve got class soon, so you have to go.”

Oikawa whined, but doesn’t try to resist as Hajime shoved a book and some pens in a satchel, slinging it on his shoulder. “Don’t you have somewhere to be anyway?” Hajime asked, hoping to _maybe_ glean some kind of information – but to no avail. Oikawa shakes his head, hair flopping. 

“Not yet, no,” he answered cheerily, following Hajime like an obedient dog as he left the shed. Hajime paused to bid Ushijima farewell, and even from the door, he can see the relieved expression. A rare sight, for someone who’s a blank slate 90% of the time.

The door clicked shut, and Hajime took a deep breath. “You can’t hang around here,” Hajime began. “Where’re you going?”

Oikawa shrugged. “Least I can do is walk you to your class.”

He stayed true to his word, accompanying Hajime for the entire twelve-minute walk across campus. And even if the only topic they discussed was Oikawa’s “disgusting” friend, Hajime couldn’t help but enjoy himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the 8 month break followed by an incredibly short chapter - I'm trying to return, I swear. Small bites first.


End file.
